The heavy sound of metal scraping against asphalt breaks the silence of the quiet, abandoned road. Dragging a blood-soaked leg, he takes each step with difficulty, using his rifle as a makeshift cane.

Blood is caked on his temple where he hit the signpost, and he grinds his teeth, exhaling ragged breaths against a splitting headache.

Clenching his jaw as if to suppress a groan, he lifts his head through hair matted with dust, his bloodshot eyes locking sharply onto Guest standing in the middle of the road.

In a moment of instinctive wariness and a flash of betrayal, he grips his rifle so hard his knuckles turn white. Panting heavily but glaring with beast-like eyes as if refusing to show any weakness, he spits out in a crushed voice: